


shitty umbrellas and other things that will make your day

by redreys



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: First Kiss, Flirting, Friends to Lovers, Gen, M/M, and also care for each other a lot, i just think they are neat, they are just very casually attracted to each other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-15
Updated: 2021-02-15
Packaged: 2021-03-16 02:40:58
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,898
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29446449
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/redreys/pseuds/redreys
Summary: “This is really nice,” he says to Tim, eyes closed. “Feels weird to say but-” he opens his eyes for that, somehow curious to read Tim’s reaction, “It’s been a while since I’ve seen something both comforting and new.”If anything, Tim seems to understand. “Yeah, I get that,” he says, relaxed, “easier to find refuge in places that feel familiar.”For a long moment, Tim looks at him in silence, but Martin can see the beginning of a smile shining through his expression. He looks as if he is debating whether or not he should say what he is thinking.“What?” Martin asks.“Nothing. I guess I’m just happy I could do something for you.”
Relationships: Martin Blackwood & Sasha James & Tim Stoker, Martin Blackwood/Tim Stoker, Sasha James & Tim Stoker
Comments: 18
Kudos: 51
Collections: Martim Week 2021





	shitty umbrellas and other things that will make your day

**Author's Note:**

> wrote this fic for [martim week](https://martimweek.tumblr.com/), loosely based on the prompt 'ephiphany' (which in this case would be: your cute coworker is your friend, actually, and he likes you, and perhaps you should kiss about it). hope you enjoy!

Martin wasn’t expecting rain.

The sky had been cloudy since early in the morning (it’s December, after all) and the signs for a storm were all there. He had been careful enough to take that into consideration and explicitly mark it down as one of the reasons why staying inside might have been the better option. He even brought an umbrella with him, despite the fact that it wasn’t raining yet when he left.

By all accounts, this shouldn’t be a surprise.

And yet, somehow, he wasn’t expecting to actually need to open his shitty, small, oh so fucking uncooperative umbrella, and he still does not like the idea of getting his clothes wet. He had _tried_ so hard to look cute—wore that black jacket he never feels cool enough to pull off, untied his hair and found a pair of cute earrings in a forgotten box right before getting out of the bathroom. He was looking forward to smiling at strangers without worrying about drops of water messing up his glasses, and he thought that today could very well be an exception to the order of the world. Sometimes it’s cloudy in the middle of December, and it does not rain.

Martin is used to storms, sure, and he doesn’t hate them, per se, but today could have been sunny, and _easy_ : the perfect background for romantic, feel-good movies. It wasn’t likely, but it was a chance. Martin doesn’t like giving up on it.

It feels silly, to get stuck on the scenery, but there’s not necessarily _much_ he can claim for himself beyond the scenery. He had scrolled through his contact list more than once this morning, stubbornly trying to pick someone he wouldn’t feel awkward reaching out to, and ultimately came up short. Besides his coworkers, every name that was once familiar to him read as distant. The poetry nights group chat has been dead for over eight months, the one girl he used to see almost every week moved to another country and is now raising a baby, and the friends he almost made are just as depressing to think about as those he lost. He doesn’t even _think_ about opening Tinder and facing the amount of unread messages and conversations that died off mid-way.

Martin has never really had big fights and he tries not to ghost anyone if he can help it, but connections fade overtime, and he hasn’t been very good at regularly checking in with his. That’s on him, and maybe on his weird job and the state of the word in general, but sometimes you don’t want to fix your problems, or contemplate your sadness. You just want to see pretty things and write the last verse of a sonnet on a quiet park bench.

Rain ruins that. Not permanently, not entirely, but it does. Just a bit.

Martin is currently pursuing plan b, which is: going to the cinema and pretending that had been his plan all along. It’s usually not that fun to go alone, but, well… Star Wars is in theatres. It’s the first Sunday since it came out, _and_ it’s raining, which means the rooms will be packed. There will likely be a queue, and there’s something exciting about getting to see The Force Awakens with a crowd of strangers. It’s perhaps even better than sitting in a park and pretending that this is all some big metaphor, and his life will turn around by Monday.

Frankly, it’s a bit strange that he only considered the option once he lost all others. He _likes_ Star Wars. He used to be such a nerd about it when he was a teenager.

It's not like he doesn't know what the deal is. Something something _oh no I’m losing interest in the things I once felt passionate about_ something something _oh fuck my job is a mess_ something something I’m losing touch with my friends, something something that perhaps Martin should keep in check.

But again, today is not a day for reparations. Martin just wants to _be_ for once, and so that’s exactly what he is doing.

When he reaches the small cinema, he can indeed see through the glass doors a queue full of giggling teenagers and middle-aged dads in Darth Vader t-shirts. All of a sudden, he forgets about the rain and the cold, and tries to remember that other people’s lives are still moving. It’s a strange way to put it, but he likes thinking that he can fake being one of them. Blend in through normal-life, carefree humans going about their day.

He’s about to close his umbrella and get in, when someone gets out in a rush, head low. Martin sees long hair messily arranged in a bun, a black turtleneck, a long coat. He sees broad shoulders and unmistakably deep eyes. Eventually, he sees a friend.

“Tim?” he says, out of instinct, and Tim looks up from his phone and immediately smiles.

“Martin!” he half-shouts, moving to the side, away from the door, as another person gets out and brushes against him. He looks pleasantly surprised. “Fancy seeing you here,” he adds, running a hand through his hair, and Martin, hit by a wave of unexpected affection, almost rolls his eyes. _Show-off._

“Were you here for Star Wars?” he asks, as he also moves away from the door, closer to the entrance so that the top of the building shields him against the rain.

“I was. Well, I still am, kind of. Was supposed to see it with Sasha.”

“Oh,” Martin replies, and there’s that familiar feeling again: _am I interrupting something?_ Is Sasha still supposed to get here, is he interfering with their afternoon? It’s a stupid worry, and he _knows_ that Tim likes him, but it’s still- awkward. Working together feels natural, and they have been to pubs together before, but Sasha and Jon are usually there, too. Perhaps it’s the combination of trying to look attractive for strangers and then randomly stumbling into a cute coworker. He feels like he has been caught in some kind of act.

There’s maybe too much of a pause before Martin adds: “Is she alright?”

“Oh, yeah,” Tim replies, instantly, “don’t worry about that. She is more than fine, actually.”

Martin frowns, waiting for elaborations, and Tim shrugs. Smiles in earnest, playful joy.

“She apparently met her high-school crush on the tube, and discovered she is gay now. They are currently eating something together. Sasha tried suggesting that she come to the movie, too, but I assure you being the third wheel for Sasha James is a job in itself and I am here to have mindless fun, thank you very much. I think she might make it for the next screening, though.”

Martin is pretty sure that with ‘ _being the third wheel for Sasha James is a job in itself’_ Tim means that _he_ makes it a job by trying his absolute hardest to subtly paint Sasha in the best light he possibly can, and that Sasha probably prefers introducing her partners to her insufferable, loving best friend _after_ she is gotten familiar with them herself, but he doesn’t say a word about it. Truth be told, saying words is hard in general right now. He is wrestling with his umbrella, fruitlessly attemping to close it without breaking it, and Tim laughs before Martin has a chance to end his suffering.

“Need a hand there, my friend?” he asks, and Martin shakes his head, turning towards the wall and pushing the top of the umbrella against it, trying to get it to do its fucking job.

“No,” he mumbles, through gritted teeth. “I have this-” he fixes one of the metal bars back into its right spot. “Under control-” the metal bar jumps right back where it was. “Just- just a moment, please.”

Tim steps back, hands raised theatrically in the air. “By all means.”

It takes several courses and a couple of forced pushes, but, eventually, the umbrella closes. Finally. 1-0, Martin Blackwood wins the round this time. Victory at last.

“Sorry,” he says, a little embarrassed, maybe even blushing some, and then looks back at Tim. “I hope Sasha is having a nice time.”

Tim doesn’t try to suppress his laugh. That’s nice to notice, in some ways. Martin doesn’t feel like he is being made fun of. Tim’s laugh is small, and warm, and inoffensive. “I am sure she is doing wonderfully,” he says, and Martin knows he means it. That’s honestly one of the best things about Tim. He has such an enthusiastic, open faith in Sasha. It never gets tiring, to see people care for each other.

“I am sure she is,” Martin replies. From the tone of his voice it sounds like there’s more to his thought, and, well. Maybe there _is_ , but he can’t think of how to articulate it.

Surprisingly, Tim looks lost, as well. For a moment, they just stare at each other, enveloped in between the physical and metaphorical warmth of the cinema and the sharp coldness of the pouring rain.

Tim is wearing an earring, too. It’s just a small, grey ring, but it looks good on him. Martin almost says as much, but then Tim speaks up first.

“Well, do you want to see it with us? Star Wars, I mean. We can have a coffee somewhere and then wait for Sasha. Buy the tickets midway through the movie so we don’t have to do the whole queue again.”

 _Oh._ Martin hadn’t even considered that. It’s such a simple conclusion, but lately everything always feels like too much of a breach. “Sure,” he replies. He almost asks something on the lines of: _what about Sasha, though? Shouldn’t you ask her first? What if she’d rather watch it without me?_ but he doesn’t want to indulge any amount of self-pity today. She suggested watching the movie with her high-school crush, she won’t mind having Martin there.

Just to be sure, almost to check, he thinks back to that one time she came to work with a used Forugh Farrokhzad poetry collection, and put it on his desk saying _I remember you mentioned liking her. Found this in a bookstore._

‘Found’ as in: bought it for you.

She won’t mind having him there.

“Should we go, then?” Tim asks, and it dawns on Martin that they will have to move now. Get back into the road.

“Oh you got to be _fucking_ kidding me,” he whispers as he stares at his umbrella, out of some kind of animalistic, instinctual rage, but before he can attempt undoing all his work and opening it again, Tim grins and raises a finger. _Wait just a moment._

Martin has often wondered what witnessing a miracle would feel like—whether the impossibility of it would register any differently than real-life horror would. He never thought he would get many chances of finding out, either way, but when Tim brings out a small umbrella from the pocket of his coat, he thinks that this comes pretty damn close.

“Do not despair, Blackwood,” Tim proclaims as he holds it in triumph, and Martin exhales, relieved beyond words.

“You are the man of my dreams,” he says, without thinking too much about it, and Tim’s smile widens, taking in the line just as lightly as Martin meant it.

“I do my best,” he replies as he opens the umbrella, then steps into the road and gestures for Martin to follow him. After unceremoniously shoving his own umbrella into its case and then burying it in his bag, Martin does.

They are mostly of the same height, but Tim is slightly taller than him, and his umbrella is _very_ small. Cutting short through any potential new-born hesitation, Martin leans on Tim’s side. There’s no other choice, really. He doesn’t even feel self-conscious about it.

“There’s a nice bar just two minutes away from here,” Tim whispers, leaning back just enough to be heard. “Do you mind heading there? Or did you have some other place in mind?”

Martin shakes his head, mutters something like _no, it’s fine, let’s go_ , and then they begin walking.

Tim has always been a physically affectionate friend. If you let him, he will squeeze your arm to say thank you, rest a hand on your back when asking you questions, hug you when you give him good news. Martin has always liked that. He has learned to expect it.

And yet, some part of him enjoys being close to him right now the way he would if this were a novelty. He isn’t nervous about it, it’s just comforting. It is nice. Makes him feel at ease.

When they get to the bar (a small, quiet place—the owners know Tim by name, _obviously,_ and he introduces them to Martin with the familiarity of an old friend) Martin simply sinks into his chair, breathing slowly, focusing on the way the room’s warmth flows back into his muscles. There’s some kind of ambient music in the background, and a faint smell of flowers.

“This is really nice,” he says to Tim, eyes closed. “Feels weird to say but-” he opens his eyes for that, somehow curious to read Tim’s reaction, “It’s been a while since I’ve seen something both comforting and new.”

If anything, Tim seems to understand. “Yeah, I get that,” he says, relaxed, “easier to find refuge in places that feel familiar.”

For a long moment, Tim looks at him in silence, but Martin can see the beginning of a smile shining through his expression. He looks as if he is debating whether or not he should say what he is thinking.

“What?” Martin asks.

“Nothing. I guess I’m just happy I could do something for you.”

 _‘Thank you’_ would be the natural response, ‘ _hope I can return the favour’_ a slightly warmer but still appropriate one. “Why?” Martin says, instead, and he means it as a genuine question. At that, Tim lights up, leaning forward on the table and resting his elbows on the wood.

They have both ordered tea. Tim usually chooses something else (that’s what the waitress said, at least) but he wanted to follow Martin’s path today. Now, too, he looks like he is happy to comply. Go wherever he leads.

“Because you are my friend. I don’t know if it gets more complicated than that.”

Martin nods, nonchalantly trying to make up for his blushing. “Thanks,” he whispers, looking down.

Tim waits another couple of seconds before speaking again, and then he turns to look out of the bar’s window. Says: “You could have called us, you know.”

The sentence hovers in the air, and initially Martin doesn’t know how to take it, so he resorts to waiting in silence. There's no anxiety there. He just lets it sit in the distance between them, up until Tim turns back to him and clarifies. 

“I don’t mean that you should have, and I don’t want to imply that you would have wanted to. What I’m trying to say is that we enjoy your company. I’m sure that’s true for Sasha, too, but just know that whenever you want to see me, if there's _anything_ I can do for you, you can call me.”

Martin can see how that could sound paternalistic or belittling, but Tim pretty much nails the delivery. When he smiles, he smiles mostly because of that.

“Is that so?” he replies, suddenly playful, cause that’s how Martin works, really. There’s a series of paperwork he has to fill before he feels comfortable enough to be a bitch with people he cares about, but when the paperwork is done, it is done.

Tim is only slightly taken aback. He bites his lip, temporarily reloading his thought processes, and finally recovers enough to speak. “Guess it is.”

For a brief moment, despite being the one who started it, Martin isn’t entirely sure which direction he should take now. Are they flirting? Are these just jokes between friends? Can it be both?

Once again, it’s Tim that solves the riddle. Unravels it easily, the way it always could have if either of them had said the word.

“You look good in that jacket, by the way,” he says, like it's an attempt to strike back and make Martin flustered in return, but Martin only takes it as a challenge.

“I know,” he replies, and he doesn’t. Not always, at least. It still feels easy to believe it now. It’s a way of cheating his self-loathing and somehow making it to the end of the game.

Tim doesn’t immediately react, and instead rests his chin on the palm of his hand, shamelessly staring at Martin, no-doubt crafting some kind of come-back. He doesn’t seem to mind taking his time with it, which is equal parts flattering and sweet.

Right then, though, before anyone can do anything, their waitress arrives with the tea. Tim immediately switches his body language, turns into a more casually, friendly version of himself, one that effortlessly cracks jokes and knows how to compliment you without being on the nose about it.

Martin admires Tim’s charisma, likes how flexible it can be, but he does recognize it as the curated act it is, rather than a simple instict. That’s not to say that it is disingenuous, because it isn’t, but it’s an effort. Martin has met people who are naturally funny before, who tell stories about their life and simply _happen_ to have a comical way of describing things. Tim is not like that. He wants to make _you_ laugh, because of the things _you_ like and feel comfortable with, even when he is being self-referential with his jokes.

Martin wonders what it would look like, to get him to let go. He wouldn’t want him to stop trying entirely, cause that effort is a part of him, and a beautiful one, at that, but he likes the idea of pushing him off the script. Somewhere new, but comfortable.

If someone asked him just _what_ he is fantasizing about right now, Martin would probably struggle to find an answer. Does he mean as friends? Coworkers? Something else? Perhaps it doesn’t matter all that much. It works on all grounds.

When the waitress leaves, Martin takes a sip of his tea (it is very good) and then just goes with what he is thinking.

“I think you look good, too,” he says, and he likes how honest that feels.

Tim doesn’t raise his eyebrows, he does not look surprised or embarrassed, and he doesn’t turn away or hesitate before speaking. “I know.”

Martin laughs. _Idiot._ Soon, Tim joins him, and they end up drinking their tea in silence, occasionally exchanging looks and laughing quietly, all in response to an inside-joke neither of them has mentioned out loud.

The rest of their time in the bar is spent chatting about normal things. They talk about Star Wars (they both have relatively high-hopes for this trilogy, it turns out; Martin doesn’t realise how excited he is up until Tim brings it up) and they talk about Sasha, and Jon, too (they agree they should all go to the cinema together one of those days, or maybe even have regular movie nights). It’s a good conversation, and it never feels forced.

When they get up to leave, Martin realises abruptly that it isn’t raining anymore. Tim insists on paying, and Martin doesn’t complain. _I’ll pay next time,_ he says. Tim doesn’t object, either, and even opens the door for him on their way out.

Outside, you can still smell the rain, but the air is clear. There’s a half rainbow in the sky.

“Would you like to go out sometime?” Tim asks, with absolutely no lead-in. Martin feels his stomach turn, just like it did when he was sixteen and flirting with his first boyfriend. The difference is that this time he is not scared.

“Again, you mean?”

Tim rolls his eyes. “Yeah. Yeah, Martin, _again_. Would you like to go on a second date one of these days?”

Martin laughs, then nods. Nonchalantly, subtly, like it’s no big deal. “Sure.”

Tim comes a bit closer, though not _too_ close. Martin doesn’t step back, though, so Tim relaxes into it. “Oh, c’mon,” he complains. “Drop the act. You are blushing.”

They are standing a bit to the left of the bar’s door. By some miracle, the street is not super crowded. Martin leans against the wall, and Tim mirrors his movement almost mechanically.

“Of course I’m blushing,” he says, and, just this once, there’s a hint of nervousness in his voice.

Wordlessly, Tim reaches out for Martin’s hand. At first, Martin thinks he might just want to hold it, but then Tim raises it to his chest, presses it against his heart, which is—well. Which is beating quite faster than he would have expected. 

“I do a good job of hiding it,” Tim whispers, and it’s a trade-back. The gift that unlocks the safe.

Martin doesn't even have to think too hard about his next line. It comes to him naturally, like an easy answer to an easy questions. 

“Can I kiss you, Tim?”

Tim laughs, then nods. Nonchalantly, subtly, like it’s no big deal. “Sure.”

Martin leans in, and does.

At first, the kiss is soft, gentle. Fitting for a day like this, easy enough to go unnoticed in a lifetime. It’s the kind of thing you would write about in a diary and then forget. When you read the page ten years later, though, it’ll feel good. You’ll think about if for a couple of hours, wonder how it felt the first time, why you only half-remember it.

After a couple of seconds, it deepens, and Martin finds the courage to reach out, undo Tim’s hair, and run his fingers through it.

It only becomes a great kiss when Tim does the same with Martin. He caresses the hair first, and then moves his hand to Martin’s jaw, the pendant of his left earring, his neck.

Slowly, it becomes the kind of kiss you think about when people ask you about great first kisses. Even as it happens, Martin knows he is gazing over the awkward moments, the pieces that don’t fit, the half-steps that they both take to ease their balance. Maybe, that too is part of the course. Makes it imperfect enough to be real.

When they come apart, Tim is smiling so wide and so sincerely Martin struggles to keep himself from kissing him again.

“God, poor Sasha,” he says, instead, and Tim laughs. Cruel, that _she_ is gonna be the one third-wheeling after all. Just cruel.

“Oh, I told her I had a crush on you three weeks ago. She is going to be _insufferable_.”

Martin raises his eyebrows, but doesn’t elaborate on it. Doesn’t say ‘ _you did?’,_ doesn’t ask why or how. He simply lets Tim sigh, say _‘oh, shut up about that’_ and kiss him again without another word.

* * *

They all like The Force Awakens, and Sasha realises what's happening maybe two minutes after getting into the cinema. 

She is a very good third-wheel, and Martin gets to lean his head on Tim's shoulder during the best part of the movie.

It's safe to say his day is going better than expected.

**Author's Note:**

> author has never been to london. if there's any detail in this fic that makes you think "that's not how london works" then that's on you. it also probably did not rain the first Sunday after The Force Awakens came out. as determined by the group chat, the implication that Tim Sasha and Martin are hopeful about the new Star Wars trilogy is the worst foreshadowing of the fic. 
> 
> [+one last thing! Forough Farrokhzad is one of my favorite poets, and one that I think Martin would like] 
> 
> comments are always appreciated, and you can find me on tumblr as [mxrspider](https://mxrspider.tumblr.com/) 🌻


End file.
